


Wasteland

by feverfudges



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Dark!Harry, Draco/Hermione friendship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, also a little, at least for a little while, but I haven't actually written it all yet so, but there is a happy ending, but they'd never admit it, or I plan for there to be one anyway, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-02-19 06:12:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2377766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feverfudges/pseuds/feverfudges
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's world has been tumbling down around him for months. Now, with nothing left standing, he must find the strength to rebuild his life from scratch. Although, that in itself is an entirely different battle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is the prologue! I know it's a little short but I just wanted to set the scene before I really dived into the story. I hope you like it and any comments you might have would be extremely appreciated!

It was warm in the Three Broomsticks; the sort of warm where it feels like the heat is hugging you. Poking at the coals of your soul and slowly bringing life back to each cold, stiff muscle in your body. And a good job, too, since it was freezing outside amongst the bitter winter.

It was December 1st and, to celebrate the start of the Christmas season, Neville had arranged for the old group to meet up for a drink. Usually meet-ups like this happened in the Leaky, but not tonight. It was much easier for Neville to meet in Hogsmeade seeing as tomorrow was a working day.

Neville was glowing. Of course, he had every right to be, having proposed to his girlfriend a few weeks previous. Swirling his Firewhisky around in his glass, Neville took a sip before uttering those words he’d been saying ever since she’d accepted.

“I still can’t believe she wants to marry _me_ ,” he said.

If Harry had the energy to roll his eyes, he would have. Instead, he just sipped at his drink.

“Well, she’s one lucky lady, isn’t she?” Ron replied, nudging Neville in the ribs with his elbow. The two shared a secret grin and it made Harry feel sick.

“Heavens, no! I’m the lucky o-”

“ _Lucky one?_ Yes, of course you are,” Harry spat. He would’ve claimed to have tried from projecting too much disgust into his words but, in actual fact, he didn’t try at all.

The whole group went quiet. All that could be heard was the faint clinking of glasses being cleared and background noise. Harry didn’t care, though; he had stopped caring a long time ago. Thankfully, Luna was a godsend in awkward situations.

“Hannah said she’d let me help with the flower arrangements,” she piped up, and Neville smiled weakly, but gratefully, towards her.

Harry took a large gulp of Firewhisky.

“That’s nice, Luna,” Harry heard Hermione say. “Have you had any thoughts about the flowers yet?”

That’s when Harry zoned out again. Now that he wasn’t paying attention, the mood picked up fairly quickly and they were all chatting and laughing among themselves once more. Not with Harry, though – Harry was no longer part of the group. Of course, they all said he was, and included him as if he was, but nobody could deny how out of place Harry had been lately.

He finished what was left of his drink and reached for the bottle in the middle of the table, filling his glass to the brim with his next dose.

He'd tried to hold it together after the War but from the moment Auror training started, Harry could feel himself deteriorating. Not physically, but emotionally; mentally. It was as if the freedom was a slow-reacting poison, seeping into his bloodstream and taking him over inch by inch. It was changing all the parts of Harry that were Harry, converting them into something bitter; something inhuman.

Harry had always feared that this would happen. So, he fought against the darkness and, boy, did he fight hard. He managed to hold it off for a long time, too, but it was draining. He barely got any sleep, he had no energy to do anything either, but he battled through work. He sat through family dinners and he let Ginny drag him out places she wanted to go. He put on a brave face but it was no use. He looked haggard all the time. He looked defeated. He _felt_ defeated.

Though, while he was suffering more than he ever had before, the lives of everyone around him were getting better. Ron and Hermione’s careers were blossoming and really going places. Neville and Hannah were engaged and sickeningly in love. Seamus and Dean, despite dismissing all the rumours, were definitely shagging and had been concocting up a business idea for months – although they refused to reveal anything about it. They kept saying it was going to be spectacular, though. Ginny had even managed to score herself a place with the Chudley Canons (it wasn’t her first choice, of course, but Ron was pleased.) Last of all, the lovely Luna: she had her own ‘Magical Travels’ column in the Daily Prophet and was getting paid to go out and explore the world. She was getting paid to do what she loved and it irked Harry.

He was happy for everyone, naturally, or he would have been if he wasn’t feeling so lost as of late. He was just jealous. It was unfair that everyone had everything they could possibly want, and Harry was, yet again, battling another war – but this time with himself.

The only thing that was holding him together was the brightly coloured glue that was Ginny. Even so, she had been giving him strange looks of pity recently, which only resulted in loosening the strength of their bond.

Harry lifted his glass to his lips to find that he had already drank the whisky he had poured himself not too long ago, and, now that he was paying attention, he was already subject to its effects.

The pub had grown louder and more obnoxious since he’d zoned out which just caused everyone to shout even louder, trying to maintain conversations over the buzzing noise inside the tavern. Harry felt someone place their hand over his, which were now both resting on top of his knee, and realised it could only be Ginny. He looked up slowly, blinking even slower and out of sync, and put on his best, sad smile. Ginny mirrored his smile but hers seemed a lot more heavy-hearted. She said something to him but he couldn’t make it out over the bellowing of Ron’s belly laugh.

“What?” Harry asked, furrowing his brows to signal that he hadn’t heard a thing. It was more of a necessary action than a reaction.

Ginny leaned in. Her hair tickled the base of his neck and her breath was unbearably hot.

“I said, I think we should talk outside,” she said. She wasn’t shouting but she did amplify her voice a little. While it might have only just been enough for Harry to hear, it was still loud enough to cause his ear to ache.

Without a second thought to her request, Harry stood up, wavering slightly, before grabbing his coat and slipping out the booth. Ginny followed him, grabbing her own along with her woollen hat, and they both walked through the hazy, warm bar scene, slipping on their jackets and buttoning them up as they went. Neither saw the guilty looks the group were shooting them, but Ginny could feel their weight. Harry felt nothing.

Once outside, Ginny cast an umbrella charm over the pair of them. It had started to rain since they arrived and the sharp, wet pellets of water were already wearing the snow down; melting it into slushy puddles. Harry wore that same emotionless expression he always did, but his eyes, at least, were still full of emotion, even if it was sorrow.

“What’s up, Gin?” he asked. A phrase that used to be so warm and comforting, now feeling so cold and detached.

“There’s no easy way to say this, Harry,” she began. “But I think we both know this has been on the cards for some time now.”

Harry’s fuzziness suddenly disappeared and was replaced with a cold surge of dread spreading down his spine. He tried to tell himself to calm down, that this  _wasn't_ what he was thinking, but his thoughts were running away with what she was implying, and the adrenaline surging through his body didn’t help, either. Inspecting her closer, Harry realised that Ginny’s face was wet. Yet, they were under an umbrella charm.

She was crying, but trying ever so hard not to.

“ _What?_ ”

“I’m sorry, but- Look, I understand you’re not well-”

Harry clenched his fists, some of his knuckles cracking under the pressure, as he pushed out an “I’m fine,” through gritted teeth.

“No, Harry, you’re not!” Ginny clenched her own fists, her anger flaring. “And the sooner you admit it, the better! You’re not you anymore; you’re not the man I fell in love with, and, no matter how many times Ron and Hermione reassure me that I should just ‘give you some time’ and I ‘need to be patient’ with you, it doesn’t convince me that that is what _you_ need.”

Her voice was noticeably straining with emotion, so she paused for a moment. The only sound was the pounding of the heavy rain against Ginny’s charm, but Harry couldn’t decipher between that and the blood rushing in his ears. “You need help; self-help, professional help, I don’t know, but help. I can’t give you that, but, Merlin have I tried. I tried so hard to help you and I’ve tried so hard to love you, but the matter of fact is, I can’t and I don’t. I still care for you, Harry, and I always will,” Ginny swallowed hard, her hands shaking and her voice unsteady, “but, the truth is, I’m too tired to play pretend. I think we’ve both known I was pretending for a long time, but it’s over now.” Ginny sucked in a deep breath and blew it back out again, but much slower, trying to compose herself. “This is the end, Harry. This is _our_ end.”

For the first time since she started speaking, Ginny looked – really looked – into Harry’s eyes, what but she saw wasn’t Harry. Long gone was the glum look that glistened his orbs; long gone was the last spark of emotion she’d seen in him. Harry was Harry no more, and what Ginny was looking into weren’t eyes. They were black, bottomless pits; they were darkness. The empty void behind his irises scared her.

“H-Harry?” she managed to choke out, still attempting to remain as composed as she could.

Harry was staring right through her; staring into her as if he was trying to figure out how she could hurt him like this. She was the only happiness he had left and now she was gone.

Halfway through her speech, something snapped in Harry, and now he could only feel one thing: rage. And he was shaking from it. He clenched his fists even tighter, letting his nails dig into the palms of his hands, as he tried to regain control of his body. All he wanted to do was strike. Not with wands and magic, but with fists colliding with strong jawlines and freckled noses.

He had to leave. He had to get out before he hurt her.

Harry took a step back, emerging out from underneath Ginny’s bubble charm and into the pouring rain and blistering winds. The rain hit hard and from all angles, but Harry felt comfort in the sharp pain it left upon his cheeks. The whole time, his eyes never left her.

Ginny reached out, wanting to drag him back into the warmth of her magic and let them talk things over. She didn’t want him to leave like this. Harry, however, was having none of it. Lightening flashed in the sky, illuminating the front step of the tavern.

As the light faded into darkness, Harry was gone.


	2. Grimmauld Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter has been posted so long after the prologue, it took a lot longer to get round to this than I originally thought. I'm already working on future chapters though so, apart from the short break I'll take from writing during the Christmas holidays, posting regularly shouldn't be a problem. (Don't take my word for it!)
> 
> I'd like to thank my wonderful Beta, Joanne, who has been amazing and helped me improve - and feel more comfortable with - this chapter! Please leave comments, I'd love to know what you think of it so far :)

Harry stumbled into the flat, the wards wobbling from the ferocity of his Apparation, although, that wasn’t the reason for the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“…but it’s over now…”

“…over now…”

“…over…”

The words rattled around in his brain; surged through his veins, filling him up and draining him dry. It was over. The last thing he had left, the only thing keeping him grounded had let go. The final string had been cut and, as each second passed by, the world seemed smaller and smaller as he left it behind.

Fury collided with him once more. He pressed the heel of his palms against his forehead, increasing the pressure more, and more, and more. An archaic unit that sat in the furthest away corner of the room crumpled under the heat of Harry’s magic.The wood splintered and the glass panels shattered and sprayed in every direction, but he faintly acknowledged the crash; his mind was occupied with other things. How could Ginny have done this to him? Why wasn’t he good enough – what had gone wrong? He was rich, giving, in the public eye – he gave her everything she could possibly need.

“WHAT MORE... DO YOU... WANT!” Harry heaved, breathless between every few words.

A sharp pain sliced through his cheek but he paid it no notice. Instead he whipped his head up, so fast that he had to stumble back a few steps to stop himself from toppling over, and yanked his wand out of his coat pocket. He stood, staring at it for what felt like forever. For every second that went by, the tingling emptiness in his gut grew stronger until he could ignore it no more.

Tears flooded his face and his teeth were clenched tight as heart-wrenching, painful cries slipped through them.

It was all Voldemort’s fault. If it hadn’t been for him, if it hadn’t been for the stupid, fucking prophecy, he wouldn’t be like this. He’d be normal and leading a normal fucking life. He wished Hagrid and never turned up at the lodge on the sea. He wished that the letters had just stopped coming and he wished that Dumbledore had just left him to lead out his boring, torturous life with the Dursleys. He wished someone else would have stepped up and been ‘the Chosen One’ and he wished that they would have killed Voldemort and he wished that he knew nothing of the Wizarding community at all. He wished Magic never existed.

Harry threw his wand, with all his might, at the nearest wall. He whipped his whole body around this time – not caring about Magic; not caring at all – and stormed out the room. He didn’t stay to clear up the mess his erratic magic had made; he didn’t even notice the damage he had caused.

 

* * *

 

Hermione arrived with a pop, clutching a squealing tabby cat in her arms. Even in her fragile state, she still managed to Apparate perfectly and stalk down the corridor with her head held high. Many Ministry Officials turned to stare at her but she ignored them all.

Reaching her office, she bombarded her way in and sat down with a wobbling lower lip. The force used to open the door caused a backswing, and it shut by itself with a bang.

Draco, who sat on the other side of their office, looked at her with an incredulous expression. It was obvious that Hermione hadn’t been herself as of late but Draco had just put it down to their lack of clients this month, and therefore lack of work. However, she now sat before him holding a struggling cat as if her life depended on it, with a half-head of singed hair and trembling lips. Granger had finally lost it.

And then she let out a sniffle.

The barrier was broken and, suddenly, she howled like a dying animal. Draco jumped in his seat and his eyes widened as he witnessed Granger falling apart. Sure, he’d seen her cry before – but she was always quiet and Draco always pretended not to see. It had never been anything like this.

He tried to turn his attention back to his paperwork but the wailing that filled the air was too distracting. When she showed no sign of stopping, Draco pushed his chair out and flicked his wand, casting a Silencing Charm on the room, as he strode over to Hermione.

“Honestly, Granger, you’re screaming the whole department down,” he scolded, earning another soul-tearing cry from his partner. Maybe tough love wasn’t the right approach. “Here,” he said, sighing, as he tore the cat from her tight grip and dropped it on the floor. The cat hissed at both of them before padding along and finding a nice spot to nap beneath Draco’s desk.

Hermione, now that the cat was gone, needed something else to clutch onto and made a grab for Draco. She yanked him forward until he was toppling over her and sobbed into his shirt. He winced, but allowed her to wreck his clothing nonetheless. He made a mental note to send her the cleaning bill later.

Pushing himself up, Draco found his balance but remained where he was, allowing her to clutch onto him until her sobbing became less violent.

“Granger?” Disdain flooded his features as she wiped her wet face and dripping nose across his shirt.

Hermione looked puzzled when she raised her head, as if she didn’t expect it to be Draco standing in front of her. She released him and moved away. And when her hands scraped across her cheeks to dry them, they only succeeded in smudging her make-up even further.

Draco took a seat on her desk and looked down at her sternly. “Do I need to force it out of you, Granger, or will you be a dear and tell me willingly?”

Hermione didn’t have the energy to roll her eyes at his comment. But she knew that Draco wouldn’t leave her be without an explanation – to make his time spend calming her worthwhile. Nodding, she brought out her wand and attempted to clean her mascara-stained hands but couldn’t; she was shaking too much.

Draco reached out and grasped her wrist. His fingers slowly travelled up her hands, to her fingertips, and rested on her wand. She released it into his grip, and he placed it down on the table before taking out his own.

“It’s Harry,” she croaked as Draco began to cast Scourgify on her hands. He flinched at the name, but held his tongue. The spell was then cast on her face, clearing her of all make-up, but she still felt unclean and groggy.

Hermione breathed in and out once to compose herself.

“He’s- he’s…” She choked out another sob. “He’s been so strange for months – so distant; quiet. He kept losing cases at work, ignoring Ron and I when we were talking to him. He barely spoke to Ginny, either!”

Turning an old quill into a hairbrush, Draco unravelled Hermione’s up-do and started combing through her damaged hair, all while listening to every word she said.

“Kingsley let him go due to incompetence, said he needed to take some time away from work, but it just made Harry worse. He became spiteful, and- and then Ginny broke up with him a few weeks ago and- He’s not Harry anymore,” she spoke quickly, even quicker than usual considering her fragile state, but Malfoy was used to it by now.

“I only went to collect Ginny’s cat,” she sobbed, but they were muffled by her hands as they shook in front of her mouth.

Draco tensed and narrowed his eyes. “Did he do this to you?” he asked, taking her brittle, singed hair between his fingers.

Hermione nodded and something in Draco snapped. Hermione had put up with Potter and the Weasel’s shit for years – she was made of stern stuff – so something that caused her to have a meltdown to this degree had to be fucked up. Sliding off her desk, he launched himself into pacing up and down the room. Hermione was soon rattling away in an attempt to calm him, but Draco only picked up on a few slices of what she was saying.

“…his magic…” “…wasn’t his fault…” “...just upset…” “…can’t control it…”

“Then he should learn to bloody control it!” Draco shouted, halting his steps and turning on his heel to face Hermione. “Look what he’s done to you! What if it had been worse than that? What if you were seriously injured?”

Hermione went quiet.

“I bet he wouldn’t even have cared,” he spat. “So wrapped up in his own little ball of self-loathing to even care about the well-being of his best friend. That is no way to treat anyone,” he said, biting his tongue before he breached the fine line between ‘acquaintance’ and ‘friend’. It was funny how he’d grown to care for Hermione over the years that they’d been working together, yet he still wasn’t ready to admit that to her face. He was afraid he’d never hear the end of it.

Draco took a few deep breaths. He knew that he shouldn’t be bothered by Potter’s decline nearly as much as he was, but something in his own past made him feel responsible for the poor sod. The majority of the heat from his anger had evaporated, but he could still feel it burning deep inside of him. Concealing his rage, Draco slowly made to way over to Hermione. He took her face in his hands and smiled at her, but she knew better than most people that a smiling Malfoy was a Malfoy to be feared.

“Draco Malfoy, don’t you dare!” she exclaimed, slapping his hands away.

“Dare I what?” he asked, in his most faux-innocent voice, as if he had no clue.

Draco checked that he had his wand and strutted towards the door. Opening it, he turned back to receive a glare from a now-standing Granger.

“Stay here, and I mean it. I’ll be back soon to fix that, frankly, atrocious hair style of yours.”

It was scary how Malfoy could go from emotional to his usual snarky self in seconds, but Hermione was growing used to it.

“You better not hurt him,” she warned, her nostrils flaring. But he just brushed her statement off with an elegant wave.

“Good morning, Granger,” he said cheerily, as if the past ten minutes hadn’t happened.

However, his expression changed immediately as soon as the door shut behind him. Draco was wearing a glare that could scare any Death Eater into soiling themselves. His feet pulled him in the direction of the Floo Network; his mind running through all the things he was going to stay to Potter.

 

* * *

 

Harry was lying on the couch, balancing an uncorked wine bottle on his stomach. No matter how many times his eyes ran over the label – Superior Red – the name just wouldn’t sink in. Although, judging by how dusty the bottle was, and how Harry had found it in the depths of the cellar, he came to the conclusion that it was very expensive. But he didn’t care. He only cared about drinking the cellar dry.

Lifting his head slightly, he took hold of the bottle and enveloped his lips around the tip, before removing his hand. He let his head fall back onto a pillow, too, and allowed the wine to flow from the open shaft and into his mouth. It was less than half full now, so the liquid moved slowly, preventing him from drowning or choking. However, as more and more of the wine drained down his throat, Harry had to clench his stomach muscles and prop the bottle up slightly, allowing the remainder of the alcohol to start flowing again, instead of letting it lie low at the bottom of the bottle.

Of course, it would be much easier to use his hands, or even drink from a glass, but he had no energy.

The few days after Ginny broke up with him, he spent most of his time in bed. Harry would push himself to get up for food and go to the bathroom, though, and sometimes he would even try to read a book to take his mind off of… things. But the words never sunk in, and soon he found that, unless he desperately needed the toilet, he spent every single minute in bed. He started eating less and less until Kreacher began making meals off his own back, almost forcing the food down his throat himself. Harry hated it, of course, but found himself eating regardless. He mightn’t have felt hungry, but as soon as something edible touched his tongue he was starving. The only time he ate off of his own accord was when he was drunk.

The more he lay in bed, the more lethargic he grew to be. The more lethargic he became, the harder it was to actually get out of bed. His muscles grew tired and it was a physical challenge to move. The times when he rarely made his way downstairs, he’d often stay there for the rest of the day and the next; sleeping on the couch and ordering Kreacher around whenever he needed a top up.

The fireplace flared to life and Harry froze at the noise. Hermione had already been here this morning, scolding his behaviour and stealing his – her – cat. The fact that she had come back for more only served to tire him.

Finding some momentum within, Harry clutched the bottle to his chest and swung himself up, and his legs over the couch.

“I’m beginning to think that cutting off my Floo is the only way I’ll get peace,” Harry slurred, although his voice lacked emotion, “But I’m sure you’d just find another way to barge in.”

“My, my – is this how you treat all your guests?”

The voice was dark and unnaturally low, but Harry could recognise it anywhere. His head snapped up.

“Malfoy,” he slurred again, his tone sharper than before. His eyes were glazed and Draco was unsure whether it was due to not wearing his glasses or the familiar bottle of wine he held in his hands.

Draco took a lingering glance around the room. It looked much different compared to the last time he had been here. Then again, that was a couple of years ago, now, and it hadbeen for a Christmas party.

Then it looked bright and warm – which was funny, really, when he thought about how this used to be the Black family home – and it wasn’t overly tidy, but everything seemed to have its place. Now, it was dark and dingy. The curtains were closed, the couch had a permanent indent where Harry had just been lying, and the floor was littered with empty bottles; one of which was smashed to pieces. The only light seeping into the room was through a few large, and many tiny, holes in the curtains. Inspecting further, Draco winced as he realised they were the result of the tattered cloth burning. And Hermione had got caught up in it, too.

The rest of the room seemed clean and dusted – poor Kreacher must have been tidying around his low-life of a Master.

Draco Accio’d the pair of round glasses and stalked over to where Harry sat on the couch, pushing them rather violently up the bridge of his nose. With a flick of his wrist, the curtains jutted open, the hoops screeching along the top pole; Harry scrunched up his face and pulled back as his eyes came into focus. There was a menacing glint in Malfoy’s eyes that sent a jolt through Harry’s chest.

“Potter,” he spat. “Bit early to be drinking, don’t you think?”

Before Harry could register his words, Draco had yanked the bottle from his grasp and moved away.

Now that the morning light had exploded around the front room, Draco could finally see Harry properly. His hair was matte with sweat and dust, no longer that rabid, eccentric mess that it used to be. His face looked oily, too, and it was clear he had gone unshaven for a while; his cheeks and chin were caked in thick curls which were severely ungroomed. Even his clothes were baggy and dirty, complimented with wine stains that made Draco’s toes curl. Merlin knows how long he had been wearing them.

Everything about Potter screamed unhinged. Draco felt a pang of empathy course through him – that could have been him; that almost had been him. And it made him angry. Not because it brought back his own memories, and not because Harry had fallen into the same pit of self-loathing rather than fight to get better, but because Harry didn’t deserve any of this. Not Potter, Saviour and Boy Wonder of the Wizarding World – no, he’d been through enough.

Pushing his strange and sickeningly protective feelings deep within, compressing them until there was nothing left – because why should he feeling sorry for him? It was Potter for Merlin’s sake – Draco straightened his posture and pursed his lips. Hugs and kisses and providing a shoulder to cry on was not what he was here for.

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing to Granger?” he began, his arms – along with the wine bottle – locked behind his back. “Have you any idea what you did to her this morning? She came in looking like she’d just battled a dragon! You could have seriously hurt her, you know. But I doubt you’re even bothered,” he sneered, choosing this moment to glare at Potter, who was still confused and sitting.

“What are you doing in my house?” Harry spoke up having finally registered what was happening, but Draco ignored him.

Getting caught up in his own rant, he started waving his hands in the air to emphasis his words. “She’s your best friend, Potter, she’s just trying to look out for you, but you’re pushing her away like she’s a nuisance!”

“Malfoy,” Harry warned. He stood up from the sofa, wavered slightly, and clenched his fists.

“And I shouldn’t be the one to come here and tell this. I shouldn’t be the one to show how much of an arse you’re being!”

“Then why are you here, Malfoy? Why do you even care?” Harry growled, raising his voice for the first time in weeks. “Let me guess – Hermione sent you. What was she thinking, hm? That Draco ‘he’s changed’ Malfoy could change me too?”

Draco raised an eyebrow, amused, unaware and not the least bit surprised that Hermione had been defending his honour to her friends. Harry, oblivious to his amusement, continued with his rant.

“Well you have no idea! You have no idea how I feel and nothing and no one can make it better!”

Harry was shaking with rage now, and Draco was close to joining him. He wanted nothing more than to scream at Potter in return, telling him he knew exactly how he felt. He almost did, too. Yet, at the last minute, something clicked in his mind.

“How you feel?” Draco scoffed. “You’re such a Drama Queen, Potter. No wonder the Weaselette left,” he sneered, his words hitting Harry with an unexpected force. “No wonder everyone is fed up with you; you’re pathetic.”

Harry lunged towards him but Draco pulled out his wand and thrust it into the hollow of his throat. He stopped in his tracks, dangling on the end of Draco’s wand, clenching and unclenching his fists as he waited for the perfect opportunity to strike. But Draco kept his defences high.

“Now, that’s no way to treat an old friend,” he jeered, spit spraying from his mouth like venom.

“Piss off, Malfoy,” Harry replied. It was more of a growl than speech, but Draco understood – in fact, he even laughed sinisterly at his words.

“As you wish.” Draco twisted his wand to the side, increasing the pressure on Harry’s throat, and stepped forward until they were chest to chest, with little space between them. The pressure of Draco’s wand tightened the skin around his throat, emphasising the bobbing of Harry’s Adam’s apple as he swallowed. For a second Harry thought he saw Draco's eyes flicker to his throat, but it was so fast that he was left to wonder if he had imagined it.

“But you better grow up, Potter. This isn’t Hogwarts; you don’t have your precious Professors to mollycoddle you, anymore. This is real life – it’s supposed to hurt. So stop being so pathetic and grow a pair. And don’t make me come back here,” he threatened.

Harry didn’t reply, but his eyes pierced through Draco like fire through wood. At first, it was heated, but as the seconds passed by it became more intense, until the whole room felt like it was burning around them. Parting his lips, Harry took in a short breath and huffed it back out again – the sour tang of alcohol ghosted over Draco’s face, sending a cold prickle cascading over his skin.

Draco took a step back, arm lengthening with his wand still pointed at Potter for precaution. With one last sneer, he Apparated away, and Harry crumbled to the floor only moments after.

All the emotion pumping through his veins became overwhelming, leaving his sight blurry and his head dizzy. It was something he had forgot how to cope with; it was strange, almost alien, to him now. And the more his sight came back to him; the more he stared at the space where Malfoy had disappeared, the more emotion he experienced. Within seconds he went from helpless and crumpled in a heap, to standing and vicious.

Magic crackled around him, shattering the other empty bottles around his feet. The light that shone through the window, for what felt like the first time in years, created an ethereal, dusty haze around the fireplace. Harry started breathing in and out deeply through his nose in an attempt to calm down, but his thoughts made it difficult for him.

Why did Malfoy think he had the right to waltz in here like he owned the place? Why did he think he had the right to meddle in other people’s lives, offering up his useless opinions? Harry couldn’t focus enough to find the answers to the questions coursing through his mind.

He stared at the fireplace, telling himself over and over that he was going to block it – to keep Malfoy and everyone else out, and to keep himself inside – before he let out a strangled sob and stormed out the room.

No matter how much he told himself that he hated Malfoy and never wanted to see him again, all of which was true, he couldn’t deny the fact that the stuck-up prick had made him feel something. Even if it had been rage or anger or hurt, it was the first thing he had felt in months.

 

* * *

 

Draco flung himself into the nearest armchair, the wine sloshing around in the bottle still in his hand. It took a while before he realised he had Apparated directly into his study, rather than to the entrance of the Ministry; he was too occupied with his thoughts regarding Potter.

Draco had never seen him in such a state. Not after a Quidditch Match, not after he had broken any bones, not after the War – not after he had died and come back to live to defeat Voldemort once and for all. He could probably find prisoners in Azkaban that were more ‘together’ than he was. It made him guilty, and that guilt scared him.

Potter had been his enemy throughout the entirety of their school careers. They fought and argued and hated each other for years, and – apart from when Harry spoke for his family during the trials – there was no reason to stop, but Draco felt sorry for him. Worse: he empathised. When Hermione came in to their office earlier that morning, he had expected to see Potter as usual but with a bad temper and a hint of self-pity. But there was no self-pity, only hatred, for himself and for everyone around him. He cared for no one anymore and it sent Draco back to the last five years of his teenage life.

From the summer after Draco’s fifth year, to his epiphany on his twentieth birthday, life was hell. It started off bad and ended worse, and he had almost let himself fall to the same depths as Harry. He was fortunate; he had caught himself, but Harry had not. It was strange to think that Potter, the boy who deserved nothing but to be normal and live a normal life, had anything but – and Draco, that deserved to be rotting in Azkaban, was more content than what was warranted.

Part of Draco wanted to punch Potter; hex him until he snapped out of it – it worked for him, didn’t it? – but another part of him, the part that felt more than reasoned, wanted to engulf him in his arms and legs and give him the safe stability that he obviously needed.

Snorting at his own tragic train of thoughts, Draco took a look at the bottle in his hand and swung it onto the coffee table to his right. Potter was a grown man, he could sort himself out.

He stood up, flattening the creases in his clothes, and Apparated back to the Ministry. As promised, he had a hairstyle to fix.


	3. Halloween

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait again. Honestly, I'm the worst. This chapter is a little shorter than usual but we're still easing into the story - the next chapter is when it'll start getting into the plot more! I hope you like it, and please leave comments, it would be wonderful to know what you think.
> 
> Thanks again to my Beta, Joanne, for putting up with me :)

Returning to work after his confrontation with Potter had started off alright. Hermione had tried to badger information out of Draco – what he had done, what he had said to Harry – but he refused to reveal anything. She gave up, but Draco knew it was only temporary. Hermione could leave nothing untouched; she had to know everything.

Even though she huffed at Draco’s reluctance, she let him fix her hair anyway. It wasn’t as if she could carry on with her day looking like she’d ran into a Mountain Troll on her way to work. So, much at her annoyance at first, Draco started slicing off her frayed hair. It was burnt and brittle and no amount of Softening Potion could revive what was left – a new hairstyle was her only hope, and that ‘only hope’ was quite a risk. Because of the amount of hair that was damaged, Draco had to cut off _a lot,_ but thankfully for Hermione he was unusually good at hairdressing.

Despite his skills, she was wary. Her usually long, bushy hair had been reduced to an extremely short frizz of curls that barely reached her shoulders.

“I feel as if I’m in primary school again,” she’d said, and Draco had made a funny face. This prompted Hermione to rush on with an explanation of Muggle schooling which Draco couldn’t wrap his head around. Why did they send her to a school before _school?_ Couldn’t they have just hired a Governess?

He vowed that he’d never understand Muggles.

After their brief social time, Hermione had put her foot down. Draco had apparently wasted too much of their time and neglected their work, so, obviously, she set them both impossible tasks to finish by the end of the day. He could tell she was caught in between yearning to finish her work, and trying to cut Draco some slack for this morning – but it soon became obvious which matter presided over the other. He even ended up doing overtime just so he didn’t have to deal with a stressed Hermione the following day.

Rolling in at ten in the evening, fresh from the Ministry, wasn’t healthy but it seemed to be happening more often than not. They had finished their paperwork, and finally rounded up their previous case – which had been the most intricate Draco had ever seen since he started working – all while watching Granger annoyingly fiddling with her hair. Though it seemed that, by the end of the evening, she had grown to like her new hairstyle. Draco did, too; he thought it framed her face beautifully, and was a right-side better than her usual cut.

Draco flopped himself down onto his chair, grimacing as he noticed his robes were covered in soot. He stood up again, peeling the clothing off of himself, before falling, without grace, back onto his backside. He looked down at the outfit he wore under his robes and grimaced again as he picked up on the faint stains of snot and tears now woven into the fabric of his shirt. That came off next, finding its way into the pile of robes by his feet.

“Linky! Rachet!” Draco called out to the empty room. There was a crack and a shuffle of feet within seconds.

“Yes, Master Draco, sir?”

“My clothes are dirty. Clean them,” he ordered.

He made to close his eyes and nap but his conscience played with his heartstrings. Draco leant forward and looked at the pair of elves. They turned quickly upon sensing his gaze, arms buried beneath the weight of his clothing, and the smaller of the two looked genuinely scared.

“Is there anything else Linky can do for Master Draco? Has Linky done wrong?” Her lower lip wobbled and Draco done his best to smile reassuringly at her.

“No. I just wanted to say thank you,” Draco said. Tears formulated and dripped from Linky’s bulbous eyes, although he assumed it was not out of fear.

“Racket and Linky be thanking Mr. Malfoy, sir, and we be leaving to clean his clothes now,” the older elf, Rachet, said. Linky nodded in agreement although she seemed too emotional to speak. The two continued to gather up the clothing so it was no longer trailing on the floor and Apparated away again, leaving Draco on his own.

He smiled to himself briefly before massaging his temples with his thumb and middle finger. A few years ago he certainly wouldn’t have thanked his house-elves for doing something as simple as dry-cleaning his clothes, that was their job; nor would he have come to Hermione’s defence against her own best friend. But she had an awful way of changing him.

Settling back into his armchair, Draco closed his eyes. He’d move to his bedroom later, but for now he just wanted to relax.

* * *

Over the next few weeks, it became a routine – working overtime, getting home late, falling asleep in his armchair and never making it to bed. He had bags under his eyes and cramp in his wrist, and his neck took the brunt of it from all those nights of sleeping in an awkward position.

Thankfully, Halloween saw that Draco got home at a reasonable time. Earlier that day Draco thought it was going to be another late night, seeing as he received a very cryptic message from Hermione in the morning and had to deal with her mood swings in the afternoon; she was still concerned about Harry and, according to her, his behaviour hadn’t improved any since Draco saw him.

It had been three weeks since then, and Draco tried to keep Potter and his problems out of his head. However, it always seemed to creep inside when he was winding down at the end of a long day. He always caught the thought before he ended up feeling guilty again.

After that, the day went smoothly, and Draco made it back in time for dinner. He ate, bathed at his leisure, and climbed into bed for the first time in days, hoping for an early night.

He had no idea how much time had passed when it happened, but he found himself in a half-awake slumber when it did.

There was a crack of Apparation, which he barely acknowledged, and a cold, leathery hand that prodded him until he opened his eyes.

Draco squinted in the dark, only to recognise the figure as of one of his house-elves. The elf waved his hand and the candles on the bedside table lit up.

“Rachet?” Draco mumbled, though he tried his best to sound authoritative.

“Sorry, Mr. Malfoy, sir. Rachet tried to keep Kreacher away but Kreacher says he needs to speak to Mr. Malfoy, and that it is very important, sir,” the elf said, his hands busily wringing the ragged cloth that covered his chest.

“Kreacher?” Draco questioned, wondering where he had heard that name before, but the named elf took it as a roll call. Kreacher stepped out from the shadows and smiled, although it looked out of place on his face. He suddenly remembered why he knew that name. “Of course. Rachet, you may go.”

Rachet bowed and disappeared. Draco sat up and blinked a few times, feeling rather awake now.

“What is it you want? I was sleeping,” he said, sounding agitated, but it didn’t diminish Kreacher’s fascination.

“Master Draco, Kreacher knows you are little Miss Cissy’s son; Kreacher liked little Miss Cissy, always a good girl.” Draco rolled his eyes, vaguely remembering the same speech from when he was at Potter’s Yule party. “Kreacher remembers seeing you with Master Harry, and knows you care for Master Harry, so feels he can trust you.”

Draco almost scoffed at the elf’s words. He didn’t care for Potter; none of what happened a few weeks ago had anything to do with caring. But it still didn’t explain why Kreacher came to him, or why he was even here.

“Trust me? Whatever for?” he asked, his interest perking up.

“Master Harry is injured, sir, and Kreacher cannot make Master Harry move. He needs your assistance.”

Even before Kreacher had finished his sentence, Draco’s heart begun thudding in his chest. A huge part of him suspected this to be a practical joke, and that if he went back with Kreacher, he’d prod Potter once and the prat would wake up. Another part of him, smaller but much stronger, told him he couldn’t take the chance.

He leapt out of bed and rushed to clothe his naked body. He settled on silk slacks and an embarrassing Weird Sisters top, as they were the first things to hand, and turned around to find Kreacher gone. He growled at the elf’s departure without him, before rushing to use the fireplace in his drawing room – only remembering to grab his wand at the last minute, in case Potter really _was_ having him on and he was forced to hex him into oblivion.

Kreacher was waiting for him when he arrived on the other side. He seemed to ignore Draco’s frantic nature, although by the way he was rushing off without another word, assuming that Draco would follow him, he could tell that the elf was worried for the welfare of his Master.

Draco followed him through the hall and up the stairs, or, at least, he followed the sound of Apparation and the slight movement that he could make out in the darkness of Grimmauld Place. He was glad Kreacher chose to Apparate throughout the house rather than walk – it meant Draco could access the problem and return home faster.

“This is Master Harry’s room,” Kreacher told him when he reached the top of the second set of stairs.

Draco barged in without even acknowledging Kreacher’s words, only to find no one. The blood in his veins started heating up, ready to boil and spit at the elf for mucking him around, when his eyes flickered to the sliver of light on the floor. A long triangle, almost travelling the length of the room, showed the true colour of the carpet against the dark grey night-time made it out to be. Still angry, still almost at breaking point, Draco marched over to the door it was escaping from and pushed it open.

His heart stopped. His anger vanished. The walls started to close in on him. He felt as though a heavy weight was trying to pull him down; choke him.

Harry was lying on the bathroom floor, limp and unconscious, his hands and arms stained with blood. Under all the red, Draco could make out incisions – cuts, bunched together in rows, some parallel, some not. They were so neat and clinical that it couldn’t have been an accident – Potter had done this on purpose.

Draco took in a shaky breath and the world seemed to come back, expanding all around him, and he fell to his knees beside Harry. His knuckles turned white as he squeezed his wand for comfort.

Draco’s self-preservation instinct kicked in. If he was caught here, he’d be sent to Azkaban for the murder of Harry Potter without trial. He should leave, pretend he never came here, but he _couldn’t._ Something glued him to the tiles, and it wasn’t the sticky, red substance now clinging to his trousers.

“K-Kreacher,” Draco managed, although his voice was hoarse, “get Granger.”

“Won’t! Won’t have that filthy Mudblood in my-”

“SHUT UP, ELF,” Draco bellowed, finally prying his eyes away from Potter’s still body, a sliver of his former self shining through. “I did not ask. Get Miss Granger and bring her here, your Master needs her.”

Draco could see the internal struggle Kreacher was fighting until he finally gave in, putting the needs of his Master first, and Disapparated.

Now that he had sent for Hermione, the cogs started turning in Draco’s mind. He lowered his wand and hand onto Harry’s arms, and properly healed all of his wounds. They seemed to have stopped bleeding before Draco had arrived, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t be reopened with the slightest flex of muscle – judging by the amount of blood, they were pretty deep. That was if Potter was still alive.

Draco’s breath caught again. His hands immediately flew to Harry’s neck, the saliva catching in the back of his throat as he felt the cold and clammy skin beneath his fingertips. It took him awhile, since his hands were shaking and covered in blood, but he managed to find a pulse. His heart thudded in relief and he turned to press his back against the wall, sitting parallel to Harry now. Running his hands through his hair, Draco laughed in respite, and breathed in slowly to settle his nerves.

“Draco!”

His heart started thudding again as he heard a muffled shout and pounding footsteps on the staircase. He scrambled to his feet but only managed to reach the bathroom door when Hermione and Ron burst through the bedroom one. They paused for a second, both pairs of eyes flicking towards his hair, before rushing to his side. Weasley stumbled back a few feet before barging past Draco, as if he didn’t exist, and kneeling beside Harry just as he had done a few minutes previous. Hermione let out a shrill cry and raised a hand to her mouth, trying to muffle her sobs.

“Why are there no wounds?” Weasley demanded an explanation.

“I healed them. There were… cuts. Self-inflicted,” Draco explained, his voice sounding breathless despite his even breathing.

Hermione lowered her hand but bit on her lip to silence herself, and Draco noticed the tears that started to spill against her ashen cheeks. She looked the stark contrast of the Hermione he’d seen earlier that day.

Feeling protective over her emotional state once more, Draco moved to her side and enveloped her in a hug. She leant her head on his chest and they watched as Ron performed a series of simple medical spells on Harry, which he had no doubt learnt during Auror training.

It had only taken a few seconds for Ron to access the situation, his shoulders slumping when he was certain that Harry was stable. Hermione and Draco took that movement of relief as a good sign and relaxed themselves. All of them remained where they were for a few minutes, although it felt extremely longer than that.

“Malfoy,” Ron choked, “help me move him to the bed.”

Hermione had been reluctant to let go at first, but Draco had eventually managed to get her standing on her own before he stepped into the bathroom. The sight of Potter lying, knocked out, on the floor, had the same heavy effect it did the first time, but he kept breathing and pushed past the suffocating feeling.

Both Ron and Draco then performed a variation of the Levitation Charm to lift Harry’s limp body and manoeuvre him through the bathroom door, placing him on the bed. As if it were the norm, Ron gently pulled out the duvet from underneath him and tucked him in, his face solemn but his heart racing.

At first, Ron was reluctant to leave Harry alone, even though he was unconscious and stable. Although, after Hermione set a bunch of wards and alarms to let anyone in the house know if Harry woke or got worse, he finally agreed to sit in the kitchen, where he proceeded to bawl his eyes out.

It was horrendous for Draco to have to listen to his heaving and sobbing. He busied himself with making the hot chocolates so he didn’t need to watch Weasley cry, too, but there was only so much hovering one could do around the stove when he didn’t, in fact, need to be standing there.

However, Ron was too busy crying, and Hermione was too busy consoling him with wet eyes, to notice. They were whispering between each other, something about “parents” and “grave” and “poor Harry”, and as nosey as he was, Draco didn’t think it was his place to intrude.

Once the milk had boiled, he poured it into three mugs and stirred in the powder mixture. Making it the Muggle way, with Muggle products, wasn’t Draco’s favourite thing to do but he was feeling too fragile to attempt to use his Magic again.

He carried the mugs in the most awkward trio over to the table, before sitting across from Ron and Hermione. Thankfully the sobbing had reduced to sniffles, but, just as Draco feared, Weasley’s face was a horrible, sickly pale with red blotches splashed across it. He tried not to wince at how unattractive he looked.

“When he wakes up, I’m gonna kill him,” Ron said, in the most breathless and high-pitched voice Draco had ever heard. Hermione bristled at the comment, but Draco could see Weasley’s need for the joke.

Weasley’s hand clasped around the warm mug and he took a slip, the hot liquid soothing his raw throat. He let out a sigh before placing it back on the table, hands still clasped around the mug.

“Thanks,” he then said, and Draco was shocked to realise it had been directed at him. “I know Harry’s not your number one fan, and you’re not his, either, but thanks. If he was in his right mind, he’d be grateful.”

All Draco could do was nod. He didn’t think Weasley’s words were truthful – apart from not being Potter’s number one fan – but he was a sucker for praise, so a rush of pride ran through him. Only for a moment though, until he registered what else he’d said.

“Do you think he’ll improve?” he asked, only to receive averted looks. Hermione then sighed and glanced at him.

“There’s only one thing left that might help him-”

“No, Hermione!” Ron interrupted, looking furious.  

For a few moments, they glared at each other, saying nothing, as if they were having a conversation through their eyes. Draco ran impatient – he had no idea how Potter put up with them at Hogwarts.

“What?” Draco demanded, curious to know why they weren’t letting him in.

“She means St. Mungos,” Ron growled, sipping his hot chocolate more viciously this time.

“I don’t know, Granger. I think that’s a bad idea.”

Weasley’s eyebrows shot up, almost comically. They’d never agreed on anything before.

“What!” she shrieked, “I thought you’d be on my side!”

Thinking over what he was going to say next, Draco look a long sip from his mug.

“Think of the press. They’ll have a field day if they learn Potter isn’t… coping,” said Draco. Ron waved his hands in big gestures towards Draco, but his eyes stayed on Hermione. It was more than obvious that he’d said this to Hermione before. “If they learn his mental state is in decline, Skeeter will be declaring him the next Dark Lord.”

Hermione chewed her lip, eyes damp. They were all stuck between a rock and a hard place, but Merlin knows why Draco was even there at all.

“But what else are we supposed to do?” she said in a small voice.

A few more moments went by before Draco spoke up.

“Let me try.”

Another few seconds of silence passed.

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Draco! You despise Harry, and he despises you! What on Earth makes you think this co-”

“Hermione, wait,” Weasley spoke up, surprising Draco for the second time tonight. “I think he should.”

Hermione looked incredulous.

“Well,” he started up quickly, before Hermione could erupt and burn them both to the ground. “If anyone can get something out of Harry, it’s Malfoy.”


End file.
